PS 

35-^5 



Terice IviipalTick Mixtf 




Class _rES.ai25 

COBOUGHT OEPOSIC 



OUT OF MIST 



OUT OF MIST 

By 

Florence Kilpatrick Mixter 



BONI AND LIVERIGHT 

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 






COPYRIGHTED, 1921, 3T 
BONI & LIVERIGHT, INC. 

All rights reserved 



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^ir ^ 



1921 



PBINTED m THE UNTTET 8TATE8 OF AMEBICA 



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CONTENTS 

PAGE 

OUT OF mist: a Sonnet Sequence 11 

TRANSFIGURATION 40 

ST. Patrick's cATHi^DRAL 41 

THE SUMMONS 43 

DECEMBER AUGURY 47 

INVOCATION 50 

THE DEAD 52 

TO EDWARD LIVINGS' TRUDEAU 53 

SANCTUARY 54 

RITUAL 55 

THE DEATH OF AN ARTIST 56 

PROLOGUE 57 

WINTER LANDSCAPE 58 

THE WILD CAT 59 

THE BRIDGE 60 

CHINESE EF.IAPH 61 

A PRINT BY HOKUSAI 62 

THE CANDLE 63 

ALL souls' EVE 64 

THE MARRIAGE OF THE SPRUCE Q5 

15] 



PAGB 

ESTRANGED 66 

TO A YOUNG GIRL 67 

THE OLDER WISDOM 68 

SEPTEMBER 69 

ELEGY 70 

IN MEMORY OF 71 

CRADLE SONG 72 

TO A CHILD 73 

CHANGELING 74 

DRESSING UP 75 

LULLABY • 76 



[61 



For permission to reprint a number of these 
poems thanks are due to the Editors of Poetry, 
Contemporary Verse, The Midland, The Poetry 
Journal, The Lyric, The Masses, The New York 
Times, and The Bookman. 



17] 



OUT OF MIST 
A SONNET SEQUENCE 



Premonitory winds are at my door 

And restive buds tap on my window-pane; 

Through drifting clouds the hazy sunbeams pour 

Their grateful presage of oncoming rain. 

Within my room the April air is still; 

No tremor stirs the roses at my side. 

The shadows gather gently till they fill 

The walls about me with a dusk world-wide. 

And now grows faint the throbbing pulse of Spring. 

Drenched buds sink down in elemental rest. . . . 

Lo ! spectral, through the stillness dark, you fling 

The rainbow blossoms of the troubled west! 

Each flower among them soon must fade and die, 

Were they not all dream- wrought — thrown from the sky. 



[11] 



n 



These hours are legendary ; they shall pass 

Like shadows of the April afternoon 

That weave bright arabesques upon the grass 

To fade on the dark dial of the moon. . . . 

Long have I heard with mute, incredible wonder, 

Your voice above Spring's low accompaniment. 

Now, to the drum-beat of receding thunder, 

You come — as though with your heart's turmoil spent. 

Farewell to dreams ! bright shadows unreturning 

Across the lovely dial of the sun ! 

Over the day of their far-vistaed yearning 

The twilight falls upon the play begun ! . . . 

What winds of Heaven now whisper on our lips? . . . 

Pale in the sky the silent bow-moon dips. 



121 



Ill 



Why bid me say what you must know so well 
That faltering speech of mine must but confuse? 
What is there that my whispered words can tell 
So truly as my every futile ruse? 
Did not the smiling mask I wore so long 
Prove but a banner of the war within? 
Could studied silence smother all the song 
That deafened me with its tumultuous din? 
How did I seek to screen from out my sight 
Those blinding rays from your compelling eyes! 
And how I fought to quench the answering light 
That from the glad fires of my soul would rise ! 
Ah! must you still look down and bid me speak? 
What is it in my heart — or yours — you seek? 



[131 



IV 



Beauty be praised for this white hour when I 

May tell my love! The storm has left no cloud 

To mar the glory of the twilit sky, 

And, radiant as the evening star, and proud, 

I take your hand that soon shall lead me out 

To undiscovered dawns! The road that lay 

Before us had no turning; past all doubt 

I follow now where you shall lead the way. 

All, let the long years bring us what they will 

Of paling stars or music that recedes ! 

Faith that is bom tonight shall ever fill 

The dusk — though unknown morrows teach new creeds. 

For we have been as children — gay or sad 

Together. But, together, somehow glad. 



[14] 



W^HAT strange sweet gesture of remembering earth 

Shall make this twilight spell forever ours 

When, on momentous tides, it has re-birth 

In fragrant miracle of wind-tossed flowers? 

Perhaps a sudden onslaught of bright rain, 

Like fury of the unleashed dreams of day, 

Will beat again upon the window-pane, 

In tune with flute notes calling us away. 

Then, hearing the far-echoing thunder's roll — 

Across whatever gulf of joy or tears — 

We shall recall such treasure as the soul 

May look upon once in a thousand years; 

Seeing the garden that, enchanted, slept 

Until Love came — dusk-shadowed and rain-swept. 



15] 



VI 



When I had told my love, you slowly said, 
"Go, dear! while strength is yours to turn away/ 
And yet I could not think that hope was dead 
That had not lived for even one short day. 
At length you said, "Go now, before I mar 
This holy hour with omens that your heart 
Would vainly disavow — and from afar 
Remember one white moment here apart." 
But, unafraid, — almost impatiently, 
I heard you speak; nor even tried to guess 
The import of this sudden mystery 
That had no place amid such loveliness. 
And when at last you turned and kissed my hair 
Your sombre words melted like summer air. 



[16 



VII 



How glad I was! How light and swift my wings 
That soared above the clouds, above the blue; 
Above the memory of all earthly things 
I seemed at last alone with God and you. 
Did you fly with me? I shall never know 
What mists obscured your vision; what faint cry 
Came up to you from regions far below. 
Ah! how I strove to make you see the sky 
That trembled limitless before my sight — 
Horizonless, unbounded, then at last 
Melting into a universe of light! 
Did you see aught of it before it passed .^^ . . • 
You do not answer, but, across your eyes. 
Trail the dim mists of a lost Paradise. 



[17] 



VIII 

4 

Then, as you turned and spoke a strange good-bye, 

I seenred to hear within your voice a note 

Of last decision, piercing the bright sky. . . . 

Alone, there came a fear that clutched my throat 

Until I could no longer see the light, 

But needs must blindly creep back to your side 

To find you safe. — Safe! and with eyes alight 

Because your fantasies could so misguide 

My trust that I should think the words you said 

Were true; forgetting all in that belief 

Save that I loved, and that you might be dead. 

And you! You only smiled at my poor grief ! . . . 

Ah, was it triumph of the actor's role.^ 

Or had I guessed aright your desperate souLf^ 



[18] 



IX 



How shall I learn to live with this strange love 

That has no place among the things I know? 

For it is like a dream wherein I move 

Upon a sea in whose strong undertow 

I must succumb, save for some power of will 

To battle with uncharted streams of death. 

Ofttimes I struggle to recall that still 

And brooding day when, with confiding breath, 

I reached across the drifting sands to you 

Whose strength was rock. But ah! how suddenly 

That whirling cloud from out the unbroken blue 

Swept us, unmindful, to the open sea. 

Where, on relentless tides, moon-piloted, 

We drift to shores of the forgotten dead. 



[191 



X 



Were we so prodigal of joy that Fate 
Grew tired of counting off the lovely hours 
Whose sunlit vistas reached to Heaven? Too late 
We saw the storm descending on our flowers 
Long-gathered. I could only give one cry; 
And then my soul was dumb and very still. . . . 
But you, relentless of what now might die 
If you should speak, proclaimed your angry will 
With all the fierce magnificence of youth. 
And as I heard and tried to steel my heart 
We suddenly smiled ! Ah, then in very truth 
We saw a thousand sparkling blossoms start 
Where one had been! I know not what we said 
But only how the sunlight touched your head. 



[20] 



XI 



What place is there for me in your life's dream? 
Is there a moment in a single day 
When, at the far horizon's rim, I seem 
A flashing sail upon the ocean's grey? 
Comes there a time when dusk is hanging near, 
With all the sky aflame in dying light. 
That, of the racing cloud-shapes, I appear 
The one swift-changing cloud of your delight? 
And sometimes, when the dawn is shot with rose 
And shimmering veils of mist obscure the sea. 
Perhaps within your lonely heart there grows 
A moment's all-engulfing need of me? . . . 
Strange ! Once I had no troubling wish to know. 
But was that not a hundred years ago? 



[211 



XII 

All through the night I lie and think of you 

Who leave me dumb with inarticulate pain 

Where nightmare shadows pass in dim review 

Down the dark corridors of my numb brain. 

Now I grope blindly for the lover, dead 

To my imagining; in wide-eyed fear 

Travel the paths that once unswerving led 

To him; but find him not; nor any tear 

To blur the slow grey dawn. In vain I toss 

From image upon image of this you 

I do not know; then wonder if your loss 

Of me could ever throb the whole night through.? 

No! Pitiless, you seem, still unaware 

Of ghostly shapes that rise up everywhere. 



[22] 



XIII 

What words of sleeping consciousness beguile 

Our hearts wherein was once no need for speech? 

Better to part with one remembering smile 

Than stare with empty eyes; while spirits reach, 

Like mist-swept mountain peaks, to part the clouds 

That hide them from the sky. ... I would forget 

The meaningless conflict; rend the smothering shrouds 

Of pride; kill base distrust or vain regret 

Rather than stifle thought of mine or yours; 

Tear down the veils of mystery, and dare 

To look for hate, or love that still endures 

Beyond the tomb. . . . Ah! I would most beware 

Of cruel artifice that now denies 

The love we knew when truth spoke from our eyes! 



[23] 



XIV 

How readily the dreaming mind forgives 

The scar that glows relentlessly by day 

And, in forge tfulness of pain, re-lives 

The undimmed beauty of a far-off May. 

Thus tenderly you came to me last night 

And for one sleeping heart-beat held me near. . . . 

One heart-beat whose far echo of delight 

It seemed must ring from sphere to answering sphere. 

Then suddenly I woke and you were gone 

And once again the scar burned livid red. 

How profitless my dream when with the dawn 

I waken with a heart uncomforted 

And, searching, know not if I grieve for hate 

Or for a love that Hell cannot abate. 



[24] 



XV 



oiLENCE is bitter; yet what word of mine 

Would reach you now? What miracle could break 

The heavy doors that bitterly confine 

Your spirit? What remembering smile could wake 

The beauty that is dead? . . . All, all must fail 

Only to bring us both to overthrow. . . . 

No need to tell me that my words are pale 

In your tense sight, and that my touch is slow 

To heal your heart that would forever kill 

The form it fashioned ! Even my eyes allow 

A quick defeat before your blinding will 

And I at last am weaponless. Ah, now 

Be swift in your unkindness. . . . Strike one blow 

That shall release me. . . . With that kindness, go ! 



[25] 



XVI 

In the pale languor of some sultry noon, 

A. brooding aeon since we said good-bye, 

Would you, I wonder, on this day of June, 

Unseal my letter with an ominous sigh? 

Fearing the words therein might break the spell 

Of moments we should never again know? 

Fearing that I who once had loved so well 

Might speak a language that you did not know? 

Or rather, from these casual words of mine. 

So unperturbed — save where the thought is broken- 

Would you not read into each barren line 

The love that, once at dusk, my lips had spoken; 

And, dreaming, hold that memory to your heart 

As you would me — were we not worlds apart? 



[26] 



XVII 

If you sat here beside me, dear, tonight 
We should not talk as we were wont to do; 
Your coming would put every thought to flight 
And it would be enough to smile at you! 
Ah! we should watch the April sun go down 
Beyond the long stretch of the river's flow. 
And, turning, see the small lights of the town, 
A-kindle with our dreams of long ago. 
And you perhaps would reach to take my hand- 
For it is long, so long, since we have met — 
And each has been in a grey, wintry land, 
And for one shining hour we should forget! . . , 
Alone, I watch the mimic lamps burn bright. 
For you are not beside me, dear, tonight. 



[27] 



XVIII 

Think not that I was slow to understand. 
I have not loved you merely for a day. . . . 
Your moods to me were countless grains of sand 
That I have held and then seen slip away. 
And I have loved you for so much that's wise; 
For laughter; tenderness like summer rain; 
For slowly wakened passion that defies 
The short-lived beauty of its cruel reign. 
And there are times I think I loved you best 
When you seemed but a tired child of mine 
Who came to me perplexed, or seeking rest 
When shadows lengthened at the sim's decline. 
But now that you are gone my eyes behold 
Your flaming soul — before imguessed, untold. 



128] 



XIX 

Tonight no moon shines through the poplar trees; 

The stars are pale before the coming storm. 

And like a flash of sleeping memories 

Swift lightning floods each cloud's awakening form. 

The dark earth crouches underneath my feet, 

And breath of clover scents the parching air; 

Tonight, though you are far, our spirits meet 

Across a chaos reaching everywhere. . . . 

This is the hour when prophecies are rife 

And for our pain the ancient gods atone 

With respite of one winged hour of life 

When love, defiant, rushes to its own. 

This is the hour when lightning-riven skies 

Sear with white flame the cold earth that denies. 



129] 



XX 



I DREAMED that, loving you again, I died. 

And now my heart, once desolate and cold 

As moonlit snow, in sudden wonder cried 

"This is the land of our desire! Behold 

The desert is aglow with jewelled light 

And I see Beauty's face mirrored afar 

Upon the drifting sands!" . . . But darkest night 

Was round about you and from your dim star 

You answered "No! for now your love is done 

And this is but mirage whose pale shapes drift 

Across an empty sky." . . . But as a nun 

Perceives her God I had seen Beauty lift 

Her lowered eyes that, from eternal May, 

Assigned to us one last and lovely day. 



[sol 



XXI 

Why should I wonder that my song grows dull 

And meaningless when to the minor key 

Of my dead dreams I sing? Now in the lull 

That ushers in this long feared day I see 

No light to guide me, and I stand alone 

With only silence, silence at my side. 

Where late was such a sun as never shone 

Dread darkness and the swift in-coming tide 

Have found me on the quicksands, where I seem 

To slip from you at every step. So long 

Have I been calling you, at last, I dream 

That you are come. . . . But it is my own song 

I hear — and now I know its joyful cry 

Is but the echo from a phantom sky. 



[311 



XXII 

This is more beauty than the soul can bear. 
And I am faint with so much loveliness. 
Not Eden itself would seem one half so fair 
Were not my heart a thirsting wilderness. 
Through terraced lights that hide among the trees 
I wander to the moonlit lake below, 
And, dazed and wondering, my spirit flees 
Before a gladness I shall never know. . . , 
Dim, rippling laughter from a still canoe; 
Soft strains of music from the halls above; 
Gay lights upon the mirrored lake — and you — 
All mingled in a phantasy of love. . . . 
Hush! Can it be your flute-call that I hear? 
Now far away . . . Now ever drawing near . . . 



32 



XXIII 

Ah, once-beloved, is it you who come? 

And is it I who give a palHd hand? 

Beneath your silent gaze my eyes are dumb. . . . 

We are two strangers in an alien land ! 

And who more courteous than we who dine 

And, smiling, mingle with the other guests? . . . 

"Good-night," I hear you say. Your hand takes mine 

That in your tightening clasp all-yielding rests. 

Now, in a flash, I know that you are you, 

Though still a shadow-shape but dimly seen; 

Ghost of a flaming dream, come suddenly true; 

Lover of old — and yet with altered mien. . . . 

"Good-night," I whisper — but the glad stars burn 

With radiant promise of your swift return ! 



[33] 



XXIV 

At last we are alone and all is still 

Save for the crackle of the great birch log 

VvTiose silver strength is spent in flame to fill 

Our hearts with light and laughter. The white fog 

That hung so mournfully now slowly lifts 

Above the western hills; dark hills where gold 

Of dying sunset filters through the rifts, 

In jewelled shapes my dreaming had foretold. . . . 

And I, who ever wondered why the soul 

Knows beauty to be more than all it seems, 

Now find within your eyes its eager goal 

And know your arms the destiny of dreams, . , , 

And if life hold no other hour than this 

I am content — remembering your kiss. 



[341 



XXV 

There is a calm that broods above the soul 

As broods grey mist above an unquiet sea. 

It is the calm that takes its ultimate toll 

Out of the heart's last bitter agony. 

Thus, high above the treachery of tears, 

Above the night of all -enveloping gloom, 

Above the desolation of long years, 

I heard the quiet presage of your doom. 

Then to my listening heart there suddenly came 

The far-off echo of undying hours; 

Down vistas of despair our love's white flame 

Revealed one kingdom that was wholly ours. . . . 

I seemed again in that enchanted land 

Where we had dreamed at twilight, hand in hand. 



IS5J 



XXVI 

No bitterness shall ever drown this night 

Wherein I came to know that we must part. 

Beloved, like a bird in soaring flight. 

You brought me all the passion of your heart. 

Ah ! it was Heaven just to feel you near. 

Like holy stillness at the birth of dawn; 

And it was your own soul you brought me, here 

Where I still count the hours since you are gone. 

Again I feel your lips upon my brow, 

And hands that reach to clasp about your head 

Fall heavy at my side; more heavy now 

At living dawn than when they shall lie dead. . . 

But I who found you in that last good-bye 

Shall hold one golden image till I die. 



[36] 



xxvn 

In memory I sit beside your bed 

And see again the smile that lit your face; 

Nor do the slow forgetful years erase 

A syllable of those last words we said. 

For, through my tears, seeing your brightness fled 

Because of them, I plead with Heaven for grace 

To make you smile once more, while with quick pace 

I heard night passing that would leave you dead. 

Swiftly I took your hand and held it tight, 

Then told in words that choked me ever after 

Some foolish trifling thing. And though the light 

That came with your brave laugh was gone thereafter. 

Yet, as a rocket fills the quiet night 

With falling stars, I hear again your laughter. 



[37] 



XXVIII 

i 

Where shall I find you, gone across the mist 

Of deep oblivion? Gestures that were you 

Fade from my sight, yet hauntingly persist 

In the slow-falling leaf. . . . The voice I knew 

Is silent till I hear its overtones 

In cadence of the wind. . . . Though Beauty cries 

From every scarlet hill that now enthrones 

Your spirit, no bewildering disguise 

That you may wear shall lure me from the thrill 

Of your swift smile. . . . Nor shall I ever tire 

Of seeking you — who once were and are still — 

The appalling vision of my soul's desire. 

For, out of mist, I shall at last discover 

The unchanging you — dear strange immortal lover! 



[881 



XXIX 

Here in the sanctuary of my dreams. 

How many a bud shall flower when I am dead! 

Ah, my beloved, even now it seems 

As if they bent and swayed above my head. 

What though the sceptics proved that death were real 

And you were gone from me a million years 

Yet would some restless daffodil reveal 

The image God re-captured from my tears. 

And you, with silent lips forever cold. 

Might vainly seek my hand across the dark 

But some old dream would flash; that day would hold 

At dusk the promise of the rainbow's arc. . . . 

There is not any grave where love may rest 

Until illusion crumbles in earth's breast. 



THE END 



TRANSFIGURATION 

Silence is everywhere; the night is long 
With uncomplaining, and the far-off wrong 
Of earth's unkindness is forgotten now. 
Like glacier-carven rock the untroubled brow 
Looms eloquent of secret strength that folds 
The temple of the mind — a shrine that holds 
Some hidden meaning, come at last to birth 
Through tortuous pathways of relentless earth. 
Now, though the soul has fled, yet in its flight 
It has illumined in the cavemed night 
An image; burned the imprint of its wings * 
Into the clay, whence suddenly there springs 
New form. ... A form that neither life nor death 
Can wholly claim; but, for one haunting breath. 
Reflecting beauty, mute and lightning-shod, 
Poised hesitant between the dust and God. 



[40] 



ST. PATRICK'S CATHEDRAL 

Into the stillness of that vast retreat 
I turn from off the hot and noisy street. 
To rest a little from the deafening din, 
To drink in beauty — not repent of sin. 
Upon a shrunken crone who scrubs the floor 
Rose-filtered sunbeams from a window pour 
Transcendent splendor that might emanate 
From the high Gothic arch of Heaven's gate. 
Save for a kneeling silent form or two 
I am alone with what is false or true; 
Transfixed, I gaze upon the altar's gold 
And wait for miracles it may unfold. . . . 
The transept door swings wide and shows the sun 
Upon the steps. There children laugh and run, 
While two slip through the portals with glad rush. 
Not sobered, only awed by that deep hush 
Brooding within high dome and pillared walls 
Like captive echoes of the light foot-falls. 



[41] 



Swiftly they pass through long and vaulted aisle 
With eager eyes and faintly lingering smile, 
To kneel before the candle-lighted shrine 
Where Mother Mary lifts her face divine. . . . 
Then, gaily, they go forth into the sun. 
Lo! Mary smiles because they dance and run 



1421 



THE SUMMONS 

She met him in the Httle college town 
Where he had gone to take a one year's course 
In scientific farming. He was tall, 
Broad-shouldered, and of sturdier, plainer stock 
Than other men she knew; yet sensitive 
Withal to her own fineness as perhaps 
No other man had ever been. His eyes, 
Direct and kind, had from the very first 
Expressed his need of her; but when the year 
Was over, he returned to his old home 
Without a word of love, and she went west 
To take up nursing. 

Almost with relief 
She found herself now free from what had been 
A kind of bondage, and she wondered why 
This silent man, with his great dog-like eyes, 
Had so compelled her soul. Yet as the months 



[43] 



Grew into years, with only now and then 

A note or Christmas card from him, she came 

To miss him indefinably, and once, 

When Christmas passed without a line, she wept. 

Then, taking up his photograph, she tried 

To look more deeply in his eyes than she 

Had ever looked before; but no response 

To her new mood was there, and when at last 

His letter came, her heart was cold again. 



Three years had passed since they had met, and he 

Had lived meanwhile upon his father's farm 

In south Vermont. She often pictured it; 

A lonely spot, made lonelier still by fact 

That he was close related to one man 

Of every five in this wide valley, yet 

Was alien to them all. His father's wish — 

That this, his eldest son, should follow him — 



1441 



Was law to such a nature as his own 

And so he blindly toiled upon the farm 

Where generations of his forebears slept. 

His letter in her hand, she pictured now 

The long, low farm-house, white against the green 

Of undulating fields, whose shadowy gloom 

First drew, and then repelled her joyous soul. 

Just as his lonely strength had drawn, and then 

Almost repelled her. Now at last she read 

What he had written; read it stupidly 

As if deferring comprehension while 

Again she looked upon the summer noon-day 

Of far-off fields — now wholly beautiful — 

Where he, supreme in glory of his youth. 

Awaited her. . . . Too soon the vision passed 

And slowly, word by word, some meaning came 

From those few lines of his. . . He told it with 

His stem simplicity — how he had bought 

A thresher, hired it out, and then one day. 



1451 



While trying to adjust a nut, the knife 
Had caught his arm. . . . 

She went to him at once, 
Aware that no shght word of love had come 
From him, but still with certainty such as 
The gods might envy who, with laggard feet. 
Shall bring vain gifts to intercept her pain. 



146] 



DECEMBER AUGURY 

OTRANGELY enougJi, ouF Conversation turned 
Most unexpectedly to death, and we 
Who but a moment since had laughed together 
Suddenly were still. Somehow that night 
The thought of death — which often, like a wedge 
Between two minds, cuts off communication — 
Brought us but closer. . . . Closer than the hour 
And some vague arrogance in each of us 
Had prophesied. We had not looked for this 
But thought our loneliness secure. And now, 
Too proud to show our souls, so lately clothed, 
Bereft of their poor rags, we talked of death 
As if it were a month's vacation. "Grief," 
You said, "a lasting grief, is quite beyond 
Imagination. We experience shock 
And feel within ourselves a deep revolt 
Against some monstrous force — but actual loss 



[471 



We scarcely know. There is a subtle beauty 

Deep in the very awfulness of death 

That carries with it its own anodyne." 

I half agreed with you. At least my words 

Made but a faint protest; but far, far back 

WithiQ my brain I knew we lied ! And yet 

There, underneath the lamplight, the warm glow 

Of living joy upon us, spoken words 

Seemed to half lose their authenticity 

And it was what we felt, not what we said, 

That counted most. 

Then, through the open door, 
The sound of music came with muted voice 
Of faint denial, and as if our two 
Unbending souls were suddenly aware 
That death had come to one of us, we saw 
Just how the room would look with everything 
The same, except that one would not be there. 
But still we smiled and boasted of the way 



[48] 



We should forget; till all at once a gleam 

Of sharp uncertainty and stabbing doubt 

Flashed from your eyes to mine. And as we looked 

And felt each other near, I tried to cry 

"Impossible!" But no words came. The music 

Ceased abruptly, and I do not know 

What you were just about to say. Our eyes 

Unsaid all that had gone before, impelled 

By might of silence that shall some day speak. 

Interpreting the emptiness of words 

To one of us alone under the lamplight. 



[49] 



INVOCATION 

Tonight in sleep there came to me 
A dream where Christ walked on the sea 
And, shipwrecked, I called out, to hear 
His quiet answer *'I am near." 
But when the waves had risen high 
I doubted — till I heard him cry 
"Come take my hand, beloved one. 
The long and lonely night is done. 
Fear not! and you shall walk with me. 
As Peter walked, upon the sea." 

***** 

Who was it called? The night is slow 
To answer, but, awake, I know 
The clutching terror of the heart 
That feels the weed-choked waters part 
And, drowning, rears a Christ who stands 
With dim-remembered outstretched hands. 



[50] 



Who knows if Peter's Christ is mine? 
Like Peter, now, I ask a sign. . . . 
If Christ still walks upon the sea — 

:¥ * * * ^ 

How calm is dawn on Galilee! 



1511 



THE DEAD 

How quietly they sleep; 

How tired they must have been 

Who even now, in this wild storm, 

Do not awaken. 

What are they dreaming of 

Who lie so still beneath the waving ivy? 

Do they in their dreams, I wonder, 

Hear the thunder's crash, 

Or see the willows bend above their heads. 

Or feel the passionate warm rain, 

Like pent-up tears. 

Upon their hearts? . . . 

* 4: * 4: 4: 

And you, dear timid one. 

Who once so feared the lightning's flash — 

Just now I hurried to pull down the shade 

To shield your startled eyes, 

And suddenly remembered 

You were sleeping there 

Among the dead. 

[Si] 



TO EDWARD LIVINGSTON TRUDEAU 

Your spirit passes, but a star is bom 
To bum steadfastly in the silent night 
Where single purpose kindled into light 
Your highest hopes, and living deeds adorn 
Your memory. Wliat though our hearts are torn 
With loss? You welcomed death with eyes alight 
W^o long had fought with all a soldier's might. 
And it were braver if we did not mourn. 
Now sleep is yours, beneath the balsam hills 
In whose strong healing breath, in whose repose, 
We who have loved you feel the health that fills 
Your soul. . . Great-hearted hills from which arose 
Your dream, and whence your deathless spirit wills 
That dream to rise eternal from the snows. 



[531 



SANCTUARY 

How is it faith outstrips the doubting word, 
Leaving the skeptic brain in overthrow, 
And, swift as arrow from the archer's bow. 
Rises undimmed above the flight of bird? 
Today the heavy mists of doubt are stirred 
By distant currents — winds that softly blow 
As if a promise given long ago 
Were faintly whispered and as faintly heard. 
I sometimes think that high above Earth's dome 
Our hopes from turret to dream-turret soar 
And, like gray pigeons, build their nests and mate. 
There Beauty harbors them when they turn home 
From their wide circling, and forevermore 
Their sanctuary is inviolate. 



[64] 



RITUAL 

Kneeling, I worship at that holy shrine 
Where Love returns when the Beloved is gone, 
Where night, the sea, and one dark Gothic pine 
Breathe their old covenants of golden dawn. . . 
Again I hear the reverberant, plaintive tides 
Chanting their litanies upon the dune. 
And dream I await you where the sea divides, 
Cleft by the silver pathway of the moon. . . . 
Though, when the eastern rim of heaven pales, 
I shall arise alone, uncomforted. 
Now, like a jewelled censer, night exhales 
The incense of a dream forever dead. 
And your rapt spirit, like an organ, pours 
Its glad Hosannas on long-echoing shores. 



[55] 



THE DEATH OF AN ARTIST 

I TIRE of looking at the sea, " he said. 
"The composition's bad; it needs a tree 
Within the Hne of vision where the red 
Of sunset pales before immensity. 
There's too much water and there's too much sky 
Without a frame to hold them in their place, 
And not enough of shore to rest the eye 
Or any little thing to shatter space. 
If I were painting it " — He suddenly smiled — 
"You'd come upon it almost unaware. 
Down avenues of green your soul, beguiled, 
Would yield the sea a glance and find it fair. 
How swiftly then the spirit would go free! . . . 
I tire," he said, "of looking at the sea." 



C,56 



PROLOGUE 

Paint the sky midnight black! Hang the moon 
In the highest tree! 
Scatter the flowers of June 
Irrecoverably! 

Drop three stars in a fathomless pool! 
Let a white cloud pass, 
Soft as a breeze and cool, 
Over the grass ! 

Leave open the rose-trellised gate 

For mad Harlequin ! 

Hush! Draw the swift curtain of Fate — 

Let the play begin! 



[57] 



WINTER LANDSCAPE 

The winter wind is whining 
Across the furrowed snow; 
A slender light is shining 
Out from a silver bow. 

Frozen beneath the moonlight, 
The long road suddenly bends. 
I'll follow it some June night 
And tell you where it ends! 



[581 



THE WILD-CAT 

It was midnight on the mountain side 
When the wild-eat crossed the trail; 
And I heard his padded foot-falls 
And I saw his lashing tail. 

And the red light gleaming from his eyes 
Shadowed an unseen prey. . . . 
But the cold moon covered the silence 
Where a swift cry died away. 



[59] 



THE BRIDGE 

How beautiful the bridge tonight 
Across the wild ravine! 
How fierce the lions, tense, alight 
Beneath their marble sheen ! 

How golden under the lighted bridge 
The rising torrent gleams! 
How dark the purple iris ridge 
Cooled by the freshet streams! 

How like a wraith the cloud that flies! 
How cold the moon that wanes! 
Ah! when will the four lions rise 
And toss their chiselled manes? 



160] 



CHINESE EPITAPH 

She was a Manchu lady. . . . 

Near the tomb where she Hes 

Broods an ancient Buddha, with robes of jade and of coral 

And curious lapis-blue eyes. 

She was a wistful lady. . . . 

When the west wind sighs 

Inscrutable even as the terrible calm of Buddha 

Her impassive disguise. 

She was a Manchu lady. . . . 

Azure the skies 

And golden the tracery sealing the proud lips of Buddha 

As the west wind dies. 



[61 



A PRINT BY HOKUSAI 

Of what avail 

The tiny winds that call 

To the indifferent sea? To ships a-sail 

The twilight's silver pall 

Whispers of night 

Without one ripple stirred. 

But on the shoals three fishermen in white 

Are watching; they have heard. . . . 

How still the ships! 

So soon to feel the breath 

Of winds that rush to meet the sea's cold lips 

And fill the night with death! 



[62] 



THE CANDLE 

The coverlet lies like a shroud. 
All smooth and without fold. 

Oblivious of what it drapes — 
A spirit numb with cold. 

The arms are tense as if some weight. 
Long held from off the heart. 

Had slowly crushed the knotted hands 
And forced their strength apart. 

Disturb him not, who come to knock 

With pity or dismay. 
Nor ask who lit the candle 

And softly stole away. 



[63 



ALL SOULS' EVE 

Hark! do you hear the choral dead ? 
Forgotten now their pride 
Who on this night would have us know 
They passed unsatisfied. 

They shiver like the thin brown leaves 
Upon a sapless tree, 
Clinging with palsied, withered might 
To their identity. 

Their voices are the unearthly winds 
That die before the dawn, 
And each one has some tale to tell 
And, having told, is gone. 

4: * * * * 

Ah! you who come with sea-blue eyes — 
And dead these hundred years — 
Be satisfied! I hold the cup 
Still brimming with your tears! 



64] 



THE MARRIAGE OF THE SPRUCE 

Said the spruce to the new-fallen snow 

"Be my wedding gown!" 
But the little winds whispered "Lo! 

We will shake the snow down!" 

Said the spruce to the dancing rain 

"Be my silver-shod feet!" 
But the little winds, coming again, 

Turned the rain to sleet. 

Said the spruce to the icicles "You 

Are my wedding veil." 
But the sun filtered, laughing, through 

And the bride turned pale. 

For the sun was the bridegroom who came 

With a ring of gold. 
And his love was a naked flame — 

As the winds had foretold. 



65 



ESTRANGED 

Is there some word 
That you or I might say 
To hght the silence 
With one golden ray? 

We speak with hps 
Cold or compassionate; 
Their deeper meaning 
Inarticulate. 

Sometimes a flower 

Or melody of flute 

Almost reveals 

Proud spirits that are mute. 

Last night in sleep 
The golden ray shone through; 
Last night I dreamed. . . . 
Ah, what are dreams to you! 



[66] 



TO A YOUNG GIRL 

I HAD forgotten there were hearts so young 

As yours, tonight, 
Whose voice, now echoing with songs unsung. 

Fills me with strange delight. 

I had forgotten there were eyes so swift 

Of April mirth. 
Flashing as though with some invisible gift 

From Heaven to Earth. 

I had forgotten there were lips that pray, 

Like a gray-winged dove. 
For one more hour of laughter and of play 

Before the holocaust of love. 



[67 1 



THE OLDER WISDOM 

Fair head and dark, beside the deep cool brook, 

Dream-light in their young eyes; 
He reads to her from out an ancient book 

Old wisdom for the wise. 

And as she listens her rapt loveliness 

Casts on the dusty page 
A shadow, woven of a dream caress 

In some dim golden age. 

What if, between them, like a worshipped star, 

Millions of miles away. 
The older wisdom, flashing from afar 

Could bid the dream-light stay! 



[681 



SEPTEMBER 

Who is it calls 

Through the sunlit wood today? 
Is it you come back from where never a dead leaf falls 

On the silent way? 

Where the long road bends 

Do you stand waiting for me? 
If I call will you come by the trail that, winding, ends 

Near this blood-red tree? 

Down the years that are flown, 

Beloved, I whisper your name! . . . 
Ah! the red leaves drip from the tree and I stand alone 

In a forest of flame. 



[69] 



ELEGY 

1 HERE is one Spring, 

One April of delight, 
And all the rest is but remembering 
One moon-lit night. 

Weave round its spell 

An elegy of song, 
But never think the white hawthorn can dwell 

With you for long. 

It is so fair 

And delicate a thing, 
A sudden wind leaves blossoming twigs all bare 

Of covering. 

White petals fall, 

Bewildered, at your feet, 
And Spring makes of the whitest flower of all 

A winding sheet. 



[70] 



IN MEMORY OF— 

I THINK of you as one 

Who often came 
Close to the wooded shore to watch the sun 

Go down in flame. 

As one who dreamed 

Until the night grew cold. 
Heart of a child ! For you the dark hills gleamed 

With infinite gold. 

As one who turned 

Back to the shadowy room, 
Your spirit's afterglow sole light that burned 

Amid the gloom. 



[71] 



CRADLE SONG 

The window makes a frame for me 
And all the stars that I can see 
Are only three. 

A little square of autumn night. . . . 
Somewhere a moon, beyond my sight. 
Pours silver light 

Upon a hill where dark trees keep 

A watch above Earth's heart, now deep 

In lovely sleep. 

A star for you, a star for me, 

A star for love, and those bright three 

Are all I see. 



[721 



TO A CHILD 

You are my silent laughter, 

You are my unshed tears. 
You are the elfin wonder 

Of my ecstasy and fears. 

You are my heart that dances, 

You are my soul that leaps. 
You have hidden the key of the lonely room 

Where my troubled spirit sleeps. 



[73] 



CHANGELING 

Dear changeling, how I love your smile, 

Fleet as a timid fawn. 
It breaks upon me suddenly 

And with a flash is gone. 

It's hardly like a smile at all, 

More like a blinding light 
That darts across the starless sky — 

A fire-fly of the night. 



[74] 



DRESSING UP 

1 SEE her coming down the winding stair 
With traiHng petticoat and feathered fan. 

The ribbon binding up her golden hair 

Is blue. She wears a mauve shawl from Japan. 

No light of recognition in her eyes, 

She greets me with a curtsy. As she nears, 

Her every gesture, measured, slow, denies 
The unbroken tyranny of her six years. 

We play that she is hostess — I, her guest. 

And now she asks me how I take my tea. . . . 
O, tiny fledgeling, weary of the nest! . . . 

"Two lumps and cream" I say — as brave as she. 



[75 



LULLABY 

C/OME sleep. Her heart's a wood-anemone. 

Her thoughts are swallows flown 
Across the dusk. Her hair's a willow tree 

By the west wind blown. 
Her eyes are pools where bubbles rise and break- 

Dream-bubbles from the deep — 
Her soul's a moth that flutters in their wake. 

Come sleep. . . . Come sleep. 



[76] 



